Grandfather's Memories
by Shadowed Night Sky
Summary: Post PC - I would listen to the tales my grandfather would tell, and I would find myself transported into the past. I was the Kings and Queens of Old, and I loved it. *Movieverse*


**Disclaimer - I do not own the Chronicles of Narnia. It all belongs to C. S. Lewis.**

**AN: The history of the person whose point of view this story is in is relatively unimportant. To put it simply, she (as I imagined her) is a Narnian - or at least a descendant of a Telmarine who lived in Narnia - who lived during the reign of King Caspian X. Just to make the point clear, the girl is human - though it is very obvious from the story. Her Grandfather was eight years old during the short rule of Miraz, and was present during the Pevensies return to England.  
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**Grandfather's Memories  
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**Summary: I would listen to the tales my grandfather would tell, and I would find myself transported into the past. I was the Kings and Queens of Old, and I loved it.  


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My grandfather was a famous storyteller. At parties, after the dancing and the feast, the guests would gather around my grandfather and listen to his soothing rich voice as he would tell tales of princes, princesses, kings, and queens. When travelers would stop at my uncle's inn where he stayed, he would sit patiently and listen to their detailed versions of their wanderings, before enchanting them with his own stories.

My brothers and I were described by our mother as "rowdy children who never know when to stop moving." Mother always insists we are overly active, and should learn to calm down a bit, especially me, the only girl in my parents' brood of seven.

But when Grandfather visits us, and invites us to join him by the fire, it is like we transform into soldiers, silently listening, patiently waiting. All seven of us - with Mother often included - sit, staring expectantly up at Grandfather with large eyes, anticipating the moment when he opens his mouth and the silky words come rolling out.

Suddenly, the dreary walls of our house vanish, and we are worlds away, fighting dragons, battling ogres, screaming challenges, and roaring victories. We can feel the prickly grass on our toes, and taste the salty air of the sea. We smell the scent of pine trees, and see the beauty of the meadows.

But as abruptly as we were pulled into this vivid world of action and beauty, we are pulled out again. The raging bonfire held in honor of a great battle has turned into the tiny fire dancing in our stone fireplace.

For my brothers, Grandfather's tales of the battles and the damsels in distress are their favorites. The day after Grandfather comes, the boys are more energetic then ever. Frequently they drag some poor girl off the street and ask her to play the damsel while they switch the parts of the knight in shining armor and the wicked king who kidnapped her.

Mother loves the love stories. I think it is because they often remind her of her own carefree and innocent childhood, or maybe it is because my Mother is naturally a romantic person. Or perhaps it is a bit of both. Mother works hard, but when Grandfather relates the tale of two lovers who are destined for tragedy and heartache, Mother transforms from the dull, graying woman that we see in the day into the beautiful girl she once was.

As for me, I love the historical stories Grandfather tells. Not the ones of the Telmarines, those are boring. Forever going on about what city was trading what product with what city from what country. Always making sure to say the _exact_ number of how many oats were sold at the market place, or how many soldiers were killed in battle, and how much trouble it would be to replace them.

No, I love the Narnian tales, especially of the Kings and Queens of Old. My brothers and Mother love the fiction - I love the history, direct from Grandfather's mouth.

When Grandfather speaks of the Kings and Queens from the Golden Age, he undergoes a transformation, much like my mother. I can almost see his younger self as he sits there in the comfortable chair, his face illuminated by the flickering sparks of the fire. I know that he isn't in our drafty hut, trying to warm himself as the wind howls eerily outside. He is somewhere different, someplace where the sun is shining, where a parade is going by.

So wonderfully has Grandfather painted the picture that I am there with his eight-year-old self. I am standing in the crowd, looking up at the riders of those lovely horses as they go by me. I can see the Telmarine prince who is going to be crowned King of Narnia. I can see, riding not far behind, the Kings and Queens of Old.

There is the bright and shining light, Queen Lucy the Valiant, with her light brown hair, and her laughing eyes. Her smile makes me want to raise up on my toes and dance. King Edmund the Just is next, seated proudly, but remaining quiet, as his dark eyes brush over the crowds. I have the urge to confess every lie I've ever told to my mother.

Queen Susan the Gentle is riding by, the most beautiful woman - or girl - in Narnia. We are graced with a smile from her red lips, as she stays elegantly in her seat. I swear to never again hit my baby brother. But then comes High King Peter the Magnificent, with his golden hair, bright eyes, and regal demeanor. True, he appears to be only a few years older then me, but so kingly is he, that I want to fall onto my knees as he passes by.

Grandfather recounts to us what happened that day, so long ago. The way Aslan stood, his very presence offering comfort to everybody. The brave little mouse who offered to journey to some unknown land to honor Aslan's request. Then the kings and queens themselves, how King Peter said they would never return to Narnia, how Queen Susan kissed King Caspian good-bye. He would reminisce about how King Edmund stepped calmly through the doorway, with his siblings in tow, and how they vanished from sight, never to be seen again.

The story ends and Mother yawns, thanks Grandfather for his time, and sends us children off to bed. But after she drifts off into slumber, dreaming about the lovers from the tales, I arise from bed and pad softly to where I know Grandfather has fallen asleep.

He is expecting me. I curl up by his feet, rest my head against the chair, and allow myself to be transported to another time.

I am standing in the snow, disoriented and surprised. I feel apologetic and resentful, astonished and smug, all at the same time. Where am I?

I feel sad, and frightened. I should leave, but I don't know how. I follow blindly, and accept help. What is happening?

I am in a warm cottage, but the warmth that flooded into me by the sound of a name is gone as I begin to understand. I want to leave, but discover that something is missing.

I am running, I have somewhere to go. I have someone to catch. I have to get there first, but I know I can't.

I am running, I hear bells. The bells echo out, warning me to stay away. They draw nearer, and yet I run, trying desperately to get away.

I am sitting in ice, cold, frightened, lonely. I do not know what is happening, nor do I understand this feeling of betrayal and guilt I have. I hear a movement, and fear grips my heart. I am scared, and I want to be rescued.

I am kneeling, anticipating the moment when He steps out of the tent. I am excited, and nervous, and yet calm and confused as well. Someone enters my sight, and I only feel warmth.

I am hurt, and shivering. I do not know what is happening. All I want is to get away, but I am still forced onwards, to an unknown destination.

I feel anger, and fear, then a sudden surge of courage as I make my move. I am surrounded by happiness, and feel hope as they leave to bring back what left.

I feel numb, and frozen. The lashing pain has dimmed, but the dull ache remains. I am bound, and am not able to get away from this danger drawing near to me.

I am joyful, yet nervous. I try to speak, but no words leave my mouth. Instead I remain silent, and watch the reunion from the sidelines.

I am horrified, and grieved. Suddenly I feel more lost then I ever have. I do not know what I am going to do, and I find no comfort from words spoken.

I am standing strong, and riding hard. This is not only for me or for my country, it is for what was lost, and what was given back.

I am running, refusing to stop. I meet the cold eyes, and I feel no fear. The pain is sudden, and death is near. Still, I an unafraid.

I know all is well, and I am surrounded by those I love.

I hear the cheers, and I feel the weight. It does not matter to me, all I need to know is that those who stand beside me are safe. We will be together, and rule as one.

I ride a horse through the thick of the woods. Ahead I see a White Stag, bounding gracefully. The laughter surrounding me is joyful, and carefree.

I am back at the beginning of the chapter, and I do not understand. But I know that if I believe, all will be well.

I close my eyes, and rest my head. As I enter into sleep, the Lion's roar sounds out around me. I smile. I believe.

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**The ending may be slightly confusing, so I'll explain. The girl is half-asleep, or asleep and sub-consciously listening to her grandfather. He is recounting the deeds of the Kings and Queens of Old, Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy. Because she is not fully awake, she is experiencing what they were at the time. Basically, she is becoming who and what they were. Several times she is all of them at once, like in the fourth one, she is Edmund - heading towards the White Witch's palace - and Peter - trying to catch up with Edmund and bring him back - at the same time.  
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**I sincerely hoped you enjoyed this (and understood it). Please review and tell me what you thought, it would be greatly appreciated!  
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